


He's One of the Good Guys

by firstdegreefangirl



Series: The Growth and Redemption Iris Deserves [1]
Category: 9-1-1: Lone Star (TV 2020)
Genre: Background Relationships, Carlos is the friend everyone needs, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Michelle moved away because Reasons, for sy's needy ass, or at least the very beginning of it, that's all you need to know -- reasons, the growth arc Iris deserves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29493006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstdegreefangirl/pseuds/firstdegreefangirl
Summary: The shadowy figure is still out there, bouncing back and forth on the balls of her feet and running her arms up and down the sleeves of her worn-out hoodie.Even with the messy hair and the tearstains on her cheeks, Carlos recognizes her immediately.Or, Iris doesn't know where else to go, but Michelle had made sure she always had somewhere.
Relationships: Carlos Reyes/TK Strand, Iris Blake & Carlos Reyes (9-1-1 Lone Star), Michelle Blake & Carlos Reyes (9-1-1 Lone Star)
Series: The Growth and Redemption Iris Deserves [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2166303
Comments: 9
Kudos: 100





	He's One of the Good Guys

**Author's Note:**

> Syyyy! It's here, just for YOU! ((and all the other readers, I love y'all, but Sy has indulged my every whim since day one, so he gets top billing)). 
> 
> This is the intro installment to what I'm hoping will eventually become a full AU with Iris's complete growth arc. The writers had so much potential there, but they're not doing anything with it, so apparently that's my job now? I've got the plot loosely drafted, but we'll see how much changes between that plan and the actual fics when I get them written. 
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy!

Carlos knows as soon as his eyes open that it’s nowhere near time for his 6:30 a.m. alarm. He’s not sure what time it is, but it’s too early for him to be awake, too few hours since he went to bed, well before he should be aware of anything other than how perfectly TK fits in his arms. 

(So perfectly, like they were made to curl together in bed every night. Which makes Carlos regret his next move even more.) 

He rolls away from TK, trying to see the alarm clock over his shoulder. It’s 2:30 a.m., only a couple of hours after he’d fallen asleep. Carlos closes his eyes, throws a forearm across his face to block out the ghost of the bright red numbers on the screen. 

There’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. In a couple minutes, he’ll start drifting off, roll back toward his boyfriend and sleep soundly until the alarm blares, forget about whatever’s on his mind. He thinks through all the usual problems: he didn’t have a bad day at work, there’s no paperwork waiting for him in the morning, TK had seemed just fine when they went to bed, he locked the front door, his relationship with TK has been smooth sailing for several months, he knows he locked the front door, he … 

_He locked the front door, right?_

He did. Of course he did. He always does. It’s the last thing he does every night before he joins TK in bed. But he can’t shake the feeling that he needs to go double check. He strains to listen, craning his neck toward the front of the house as much as he can, but there’s no noise to be heard. 

Still, he needs to check the door. He knows there’s no going back to sleep until he’s seen for himself that everything is secure. 

So he rolls over again, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and pinching the bridge of his nose as he sits up and tries to get his bearings. He blinks the last of the sleep from his eyes and pops his neck, still just unaware enough to startle when the mattress shifts behind him and familiar fingers wrap around his wrist. 

“’Los?” TK mutters, and Carlos doesn't have to turn around to know what he looks like, hair mussed and eyes still closed, barely awake enough to know what’s going on. 

“Shh, I’m just checking the door. I’ll be right back,” Carlos whispers and tugs his hand away as he stands up. 

“No, ‘s OK,” he whines, drawing the protest into several syllables. “We locked the door, ‘s OK, come back and cuddle.” 

Carlos finally turns to look as he reaches for the pistol that lives on the top corner of his dresser. He watches TK flop over to his back and fling his arms out to either side, wishing he could be so comfortable as he pushes the magazine into place and pulls the slide back. A round settles into the chamber with a metallic ‘click,’ and Carlos slips the pistol into his right hand as he heads for the doorway. 

He looks over his shoulder before he steps into the hallway, sees TK pushing himself up to sit against the headboard. He’s listening, Carlos can tell, even if he’s not completely awake just yet. Odds are that nothing is wrong, Carlos’ mind is just getting the better of him again, but TK is worried because Carlos is worried, and on the off chance that something _is_ going on, they’ll face it together. 

It’s the push of confidence he needs to make his way down the hallway, all of his on-duty bravado stripped away when he takes the uniform off. No matter what he’s trained for, it’s different to think of someone in his own home, unsettling to be the person it’s happening to, not the one who responds to take care of a victim. 

But TK is there, waiting in the bedroom for Carlos to come tell him that everything is OK. Someone's looking out for him, ready to be his backup as he approaches the living room. 

He stops short of the end of the hallway, pushes himself against the wall and peers around it carefully, just far enough that he can see without being seen. 

It’s a good thing too, because he can immediately pick out the shadow of a person on his front porch, a blurry outline half-visible through the narrow window. His adrenaline kicks into gear, thrumming through his veins as he drops low and starts crawling across the floor on his belly. 

_It’s probably nothing, just a salesman or something. He’s found the Holy word, he doesn’t need new gutters, he just needs to send them home. At 2 a.m. A 2 a.m. salesman._

But his stomach churns the closer to the window he gets, knowing that he’s about to be forced to reveal himself. The blinds are pulled back just far enough to see out the window, but there won’t be any hiding it when he has to lift his head up to look. 

He positions himself carefully, stretched out with his left side pressed against the wall and his head just level with the corner of the window. His heart is pounding in his ears. The noise echoes through his head as he draws his right knee underneath himself. His toes dig into the carpeting, giving himself enough leverage to pop up and push the muzzle of his gun against the glass in one fluid motion. 

Finger balancing on the trigger, Carlos finally focuses his gaze on the other side of the window. The shadowy figure is still out there, bouncing back and forth on the balls of her feet and running her arms up and down the sleeves of her worn-out hoodie. 

Even with the messy hair and the tearstains on her cheeks, Carlos recognizes her immediately. His first instinct is to pull the front door open and invite her inside, but he knows that the sudden movement would probably startle her, do more harm than good. He watches her for another moment, then slides the pistol into the waistband of his lounge pants and taps two fingers on the glass gently. 

She doesn’t notice at first, so a second later, Carlos taps again. This time, she jumps, but stays on the porch and looks toward the sound. He carefully schools his features into a relaxing smile, the same one he uses with skittish victims when he’s on-duty. She freezes, staring directly at him with such fearful intensity that Carlos wonders if she’s even really _seeing_ him. 

He worries that he’s somehow made the wrong move, even now, that she’s going to turn around and bolt now that she knows someone is home. But when she doesn’t run away, he jerks his head toward the front door in a silent question. 

_You want to come in?_

She nods, so Carlos stands up carefully and takes the couple of steps to flick the deadbolt open with his thumb. 

As soon as he’s turned the knob, Iris is pushing her way into the foyer, immediately ducking behind Carlos as she reaches past him to shove at the door with her fingertips. She’s up close behind him, enough that he can feel the tension coming off of her in waves, her hand jabbing uselessly forward, seeking the leverage to slam the door. 

Carlos could let her, he knows. He could lean forward a little bit, let her find some catharsis in the way the noise would echo. But TK is still down the hall, hopefully falling asleep again – even if Carlos knows that’s a long shot – and he doesn’t want to disturb him. So he closes the door gently, keeping the knob turned in his hand so the latch won’t make too loud a noise. 

When he turns around, Iris's fingers are still digging into her arms, wrinkling the sleeves of her hoodie under their weight. 

“Hey, you OK?” He looks her up and down, knowing full well that she’s not OK, not really, but hoping that she’s at least unhurt. “Are you alone?” 

She nods frantically, and Carlos locks the door again. A fraction of the stress leaves her shoulders when she hears the deadbolt click into place, locking the world out from around them. 

Carlos steps forward slowly, keeping his hands in front of himself, like he’s approaching a scared animal. Carefully, he leads Iris out of the foyer, into the living room, where he helps her sit down on the couch. Almost immediately, she folds herself into the corner, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs. Now, she’s scratching at her biceps, hands tucked inside the front of her sweatshirt. Carlos winces when he sees how fast her fingers are flexing back and forth, and he reaches for the blanket that TK left wadded up on the other side of the couch. 

“Hey, hey, you’re good,” he drapes the soft, fuzzy material over her legs and smooths it down her calves. The muscles twitch, but she doesn’t kick out, so he’s inclined to call it a victory (especially because he’d realized too late that he’s standing directly in front of Iris, not off to the side, so she’d have made direct contact without much effort). He sidesteps, then wraps his hand around one bony forearm and pulls her hand away from her shoulder. 

Carlos slides his free hand along the blanket until he can find the edge and tuck it against Iris's palm. “You’re good. I’ve got to go get TK back to sleep, just stay here. I’ll be right back.” He smiles, trying to keep his voice gentle and calming. “You’re OK here, Iris.” 

Carlos stands up straight, Iris's gaze following him upright. He watches for a second, gauging her reaction before he walks away. 

“C-can you …" she waits to speak until he turns away. They’re the first words she’s said since he opened the door, and the scratchy rasp in her voice surprises him. Carlos turns back around, startled, and Iris points at the window with the hand clinging to the blanket. “The-the blinds?” 

Carlos looks where she’s pointing, to the gap in the blinds, still disheveled where he’d peered out the window. 

“Of course,” he straightens them back out as he crosses behind the sofa. It doesn’t make the room any darker, doesn’t actually hide any outside view. But it makes Iris feel better. And that’s enough for Carlos, as he glances at her again before walking back down the hallway. 

There’s light seeping out from behind the door, cracked open just a little bit from where Carlos hadn’t latched it when he left the bedroom. It’s dim, too soft to be the overhead light, but he remembers the little lamp TK had set up on the second nightstand as he pushes the door open, gently rapping against the wood with the knuckles of his other hand. TK is sitting up now, leaned against the headboard and scrolling through his phone. 

“Hey,” Carlos slides the gun out of his waistband and sets it back on top of the dresser, then crawls up the mattress to pull the phone away from TK. “You should go back to sleep. I’m going to have to be up for a while.” 

TK reaches for his phone, wiggling his fingers as he looks up at Carlos. He makes a noise, not quite a response. It isn’t a question, but there’s curiosity in the whimper. Carlos swings his legs over the side of the bed, standing up again and running a hand through TK’s hair. 

“It’s OK,” he soothes, feeling TK relax into his touch. “We’re all fine. I’d tell you if we weren’t.” He adds the last part almost as an afterthought. TK worries, he knows, when he thinks people are keeping things from him, telling him that it’s ‘for his own good,’. Especially when he thinks Carlos is the one keeping secrets. It comes from his past, from people hiding things that have imploded entire parts of TK’s world when they come out into the open. 

Carlos never wants to be the one making him feel that way. Not if he can help it. 

But he doesn’t want to betray Iris either, knows that this isn’t his story to tell. It’s entirely too early in the morning for this kind of delicate balance, but he’s on a tightrope, trying to find the line between one and the other. 

“Just an … old friend … in the living room. She needs some help tonight,” Carlos’ tone is casual, but it’s a calculated move, dropping the pronoun that he knows TK will register. “We can talk more tomorrow, and you can properly meet her. But tonight, can you try and sleep? So I don’t have to worry about you both?” 

It’s a low blow; Carlos feels the rock in his stomach as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He hates the way it feels like he’s manipulating TK, trying to guilt him into doing what Carlos wants. But he’s worried, about Iris and about TK too, about how he’ll handle his shift tomorrow if he sits up all night waiting for Carlos. If he doesn't sleep, and if something _does_ happen, no matter how minor, Carlos will never forgive himself. 

TK nods sadly, and Carlos makes a note to apologize later. He’ll have some fixing to do, questions to answer and confidence to rebuild. But it’s fixable, he’s sure; he’ll be able to convince TK that this is about Iris, not about himself or their relationship. 

So as much as it hurts, Carlos pulls his hand away from TK’s hair and holds the covers up for him to scoot further down onto the mattress. He smooths the blankets over TK, fingers skirting along his bicep and squeezing his shoulder gently. TK’s eyes close and Carlos leans down to brush a kiss across his forehead. 

“Mmm, night, ‘Los,” he mutters, and Carlos hates himself for walking away, even if he knows he’s needed more back down the hallway. 

“Night, TK.” 

This time, Carlos latches the door as he leaves the room, listening for the quiet ‘click’ before he lets go of the knob. He stops halfway down the hall, where the living room comes just far enough into view that he can see Iris sitting where he’d left her on the sofa. She’s staring straight ahead, looking blankly at the room in front of her and twisting the blanket back and forth around her hands. Carlos takes the scene in for a moment, then creeps the rest of the way down the hall, trying not to startle Iris with any sudden noises. 

“Hey,” he whispers when he’s close enough to sit down on the carpet, a few feet away from the edge of the couch. He tucks his feet underneath his thighs, dropping his hands loosely on his knees. 

“T-T …" she trails off, staring at the hallway now. “You said it’s TK?” Her voice is shaky, scared of something Carlos can’t even begin to imagine. 

“Yeah, TK.” He smiles, like he always does when he says TK’s name. “He’s my boyfriend. But he’s back to bed now. You can meet him in the morning, if you want. He makes great pancakes.” Carlos chuckles, trying to keep the mood as light as he can, all things considered. 

“He’s not listening?” Iris pulls the blanket up to her chin. 

“Nah, he’s probably out like a light.” Carlos shakes his head. It’s true; TK tends to be on one extreme or the other, asleep before his head hits the pillow or awake all night, and he’d already been drifting off when Carlos had tucked him back in. “His dreams have got to be way more interesting than the two of us sitting out here. He probably wanted to get back to the fun adventures.” Carlos smiles when Iris looks at him. “It’s just you and me; we’re the only ones here.” 

She eyes him warily, but Carlos doesn’t flinch under the stare. He waits, smiling patiently in the hopes that Iris will say something. He knows a little bit from talking to Michelle before she moved, knows that Iris had refused to move in with her, run back to the homeless camp and her purple tent. He’d sat up late with her night after night, listening to her worry. He knows firsthand how hard that had been for Michelle, even though she started visiting more often, let Iris learn to trust her again. 

And he knows that when she’d had to leave, she’d all but begged Carlos to keep an eye on her. 

So after a couple minutes of quiet, he shifts forward just a little bit and breaks the silence himself. 

“You want some … water or something? Coffee?” Carlos tries to picture the insides of his cabinets without having to get up to check. “Um, I think there might be some tea. We can get something to drink, maybe talk a little bit?” 

Iris stares at him some more, hesitant, like she’s maybe afraid he’s going to try and pull something. Carlos can’t figure out what’s going through her mind, but he remembers Michelle talking about her paranoia. ‘I’m her sister,” she’d say, over twin beers on Carlos’ couch. ‘I’m not ‘out to get her.’’ 

But if Iris had thought Michelle wasn’t on her side, then why should she trust Carlos? He knows he can't blame her for it, doesn’t want to leave her here thinking that he’s concocting some scheme to take advantage of his best friend’s sister. 

“You can help, if you want? Come watch and make sure I get everything right?” Carlos means the invitation to be comforting. He wants Iris to know that she can watch him make the coffee, see that he’s not doing anything to tamper with it. 

But she doesn't look comforted. She just shakes her head and pulls her knees closer to her chest until she can bury the bottom half of her face against them. 

“I wouldn’t know if you didn’t,” she mutters, rolling her eyes up enough that she’s still looking at Carlos. It’s not much, but this is the first full sentence he’s gotten out of her tonight, so Carlos is inclined to call it progress. 

“Sure you would. Michelle always says you’re the smart one in the family,” he shrugs and leans forward, dropping his voice to a whisper and cupping one hand around the side of his mouth. “Don’t tell her, but it’s not because she got the good looks.” 

Carlos laughs, poking fun at his friend even though she’s not there to hear it. He can picture her reaction, rolling her eyes and smacking his shoulder. But she’d laugh too, and Carlos can hear the airy giggle in the back of his mind. Iris smiles, just a little bit, like she doesn’t want to admit that it’s funny. And for a split second, she looks so much like Michelle that Carlos can picture her in the room with them. They’ve always looked alike, unmistakably siblings, but the combined effect of the look on her face and Carlos’ own nostalgia tonight leave him with a pang in his chest and the feeling that he should call Michelle in the morning. 

But he can’t do anything with that now, so he pushes it aside and stands up. Iris is still smiling, and Carlos can feel the tension dissipating between them. He’s not sure what’s done it, if it was the offer to help with the coffee, or the “secret,” but she lets Carlos offer his hand and pull her off the couch. 

As soon as she’s standing, she lets go and wraps the blanket tightly around her shoulders, but still follows Carlos into the kitchen. 

He points at the coffee maker as they enter the room, lets Iris inspect it while he reaches for the can of coffee grounds on top of the fridge. He takes the lid off and shakes the grounds back and forth, holding it out for Iris to look inside. She makes a move to reach inside the can, but pulls her hand away until Carlos pulls the little plastic scoop out and offers it to her. 

“Go ahead,” he says. “They smell good, huh?” 

She nods and takes the can out of his hand. He pulls a filter from the pack in the drawer and waves it in the air like a little flag, letting her see that there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. 

“Can … can I?” She asks, pointing the scoop back toward the canister. 

“Sure,” Carlos nods and fits the filter into the basket. “Three scoops?” 

Iris measures carefully, shaking the handle every time to level it off, and pours the grounds into the filter slowly. Carlos bites the inside of his lip, knowing that he could have had the pot steaming by now, but waits for her to finish and drop the scoop back into the can before he snaps the lid back on. 

Once the can is back in place, he opens the fridge and grabs the filter pitcher from the door. This will drain it empty, he knows, but he can refill it. And this way, Iris will know the water is purified and clean. 

“Here we go, nice and fresh,” he says, making sure she can see him pour it into the percolator. Together, they listen to it heating up, the burner sizzling and the water bubbling quietly until fresh coffee starts to drip into the carafe. 

Once the coffee is brewing steadily, the drip turned to a trickle, Carlos opens the cabinet that houses his mug collection. 

“Take your pick,” he says, after grabbing his own favorite mug. TK likes to tease him for it, how he’s got an entire shelf stacked with mugs but uses the same one almost every day. But the mug was a gift, on their six-month anniversary, _I do fuck the police_ emblazoned on the front, with the letters of “fuck” spelled out with police symbols, from a dress blues hat and sirens to handcuffs, a Glock and a taser. He’d choked on his own breath when he’d unwrapped it, and it makes him smile every morning. Raunchy message aside, TK had picked something special for him, something that clearly established their relationship, and there’s no better thought than that for Carlos to start his day. 

Iris stares into the cabinet for a long moment. Carlos can’t be sure if she’s actually seeing the mugs, or just facing toward them. But finally, she reaches for a solid grey mug, turning it over in her hands, examining it for … something. 

Whatever she’s looking for, she either does or doesn’t find it. Carlos doesn’t know which, but she puts the mug on the counter and reaches for another. This time, it’s a souvenir from his trip to Virginia, but Iris dismisses this mug as well. Then another, and another, and half a dozen more. She scrutinizes each one, flips it every which way before sitting it down and trying again. By the time she chooses one, white and olive green with the words ‘let the adventure begin’ sampled along the side, Carlos knows he’s going to have to rewash half the mugs he owns, probably run the dishwasher twice just to get them all through the cycle. 

But that’s for later, when they both have a better grasp on things, probably when TK is awake, so the gurgling and churning won’t wake him up. 

For now, he just holds his hand out slowly, takes the mug from Iris and fills it two-thirds full with steaming coffee. He’s seen her hands shaking tonight, and knows better than to hand her a mug brimming with steaming hot liquid. Carlos passes it back gently, then fills his own mug and smiles as he settles back against the counter. Usually, he takes his coffee with a splash of milk, but he can drink it black tonight for simplicity’s sake. The faster he gets the coffee into his bloodstream, the faster he’ll perk up enough to face the rest of what’s shaping up to be a very long day. 

After a couple of swallows, Carlos looks at Iris again. She’s wrapped both hands around her mug, drawn it protectively into her chest, but doesn’t seem to have drank any. And she’s staring at Carlos, watching him closely like she had been when he’d first opened the front door. 

“I … didn’t know you knew where I lived,” Carlos says when the silence starts to drag on between them. Iris nods, jerking her head up and down a couple of times, and shifts her mug to one hand. 

With the other, she reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out a worn, crumpled piece of paper. She offers it to Carlos, who sits his mug beside the sink and takes it. 

“’Chelle gave it to me,” Iris says as he smooths it out between his fingers. “In-in case.” 

In case of what, she doesn’t elaborate, but Carlos looks down to see his name, address and phone number in handwriting that’s unmistakably Michelle’s, the words _one of the good guys_ printed neatly underneath the contact information. It’s a far stretch from her usual chicken scratch, but he’d still know the letters anywhere, the little loops at the ends of her Ss and on the tails of her Ys, 2s that look more like Zs. 

From there, Carlos puts it together pretty easily. When she’d left town, Michelle had asked Carlos to look out for Iris, but he’d never thought to ask if Iris knew who he was. They’d met a handful of times, before everything fell apart, but never for very long, and it’s been years since they’ve really seen each other. Michelle had made sure that Iris had a safety net, someone to catch her if she should fall, even if it had felt like a stranger. Because if Michelle trusts Carlos, and Iris trusts Michelle, then why shouldn’t she trust Carlos too? He can think of a few reasons, not the least of all that he’s a veritable stranger, but Michelle knew him well enough to know better. 

She’d known that Iris might not, though, had made sure that she knew she could go to Carlos if she ever needed anything Michelle couldn’t provide. 

_He’s one of the good guys._

The words stick in his mind, sting at the back of his eyes as he takes another drink and tries to swallow around the lump they build in his throat. 

“She was right to do that,” Carlos says, weighing every word carefully before he says it. “And you were right to come over. You’re not hurt or anything, are you?” Iris doesn’t respond, and Carlos’ heart sinks. He’d asked if she was OK, but not if she was injured, and maybe that’s some sort of distinction in her mind? Carlos doesn’t know, but she’s not _saying anything,_ and he can feel his pulse increasing, until Iris finally opens her mouth. 

“N-no,” She lets out a shaky breath. “I just … needed somewhere. You won’t let me … let me fuck everything up. Again.” 

Carlos nods slowly. He’s sizing Iris up, trying to reconcile the woman in front of him with all the progress Michelle had said she’d made. He hadn’t expected her to look so … small, curling in on herself and flicking her gaze around the room like she’ll find the answer to all of her problems hidden in the grout between Carlos’ kitchen tiles. 

Recovery isn’t linear, he knows. He’s seen TK through all the ups and downs, knows about good weeks and bad days, how important it is to _be there_ when he can’t be there for himself. Overall, he’s willing to bet that Iris really is doing better than she had been three months ago. But today is a bad day, and there will probably be more of them along the way. 

And he’ll be damned if he’s going to let her get left behind. 

“You’ve got somewhere,” he says firmly, even if he looks down as he says it. He’s trying not to come on too strong, scare her off when she’s just admitted to needing help. “You’ve got here. Anytime; consider it an open invitation.” 

“Won’t … TK care?” Iris stumbles over the name, whispers the question just loudly enough for Carlos to hear. Still, he picks up the worry in her voice, the fear that she’ll remind him that he has someone else to care about. 

“Nah, he’s a firefighter,” Carlos waves his free hand through the air, dismissing the question with four words, as if they’ll explain everything. “He’s good at looking out for people too. We take care of each other, just like me and Michelle.” 

“Good,” Iris takes a tiny, tentative sip of her coffee. By now, the drink must be cold, but Carlos returns her smile when she looks up, sees it for the victory that it is. “I … I’ll come over sometimes. Probably.” 

Carlos drains his own mug and turns back toward the coffee pot to pour a refill, lets the liquid warm his mouth as much as the look on Iris’ face warms his heart when he replies. 

“I hope you do.” 


End file.
